


Happy Ending

by lucky_spike



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not supposed to kiss her, Mr. Noir."</p><p>You know you're supposed to kill her. Are you supposed to live, though?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Happy Ending](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4947) by MIKA. 



You’re lost.

You’re disoriented.

And you are in truly astounding amounts of pain.

Your name is … something, you’re not sure what, possibly Jack or maybe Spades instead, and today is really not your day.

 _You’re not supposed to kiss her, Mr. Noir_.

You roll onto your belly, gun still clenched against the cool carapace of your right hand, which feels odd – hasn’t been that way for a while. He hit you so hard you flipped your fucking sprite. You let out a pained breath with a whine and let the bulk of the firearm nestle into your stomach.

You lay there for a while. It’s pavement, which is nice. You’re not sure why you think so. Better’n sand, you guess.

Your hat’s gone.

 _You’re not supposed to kiss her_.

You’re bleeding a lot, still, from your nose and your mouth, and your whole body feels like it’s broken. Your carapace is cracked in a couple places, and you can feel the plates grinding into each other while you try to lay still and not breathe.

You kissed her.

 _You are not supposed to do that, Mr. Noir._  

You know what you’re supposed to do, you think. Well enough, anyway. But how are you supposed to? You’re alone, you’re … where the hell are you, anyway, and you’re broken up and bloody. You can’t imagine standing up right now, much less finding her.

“Hello, Slick.”

Oh. Well that was easy.

She scoops her hands under your arms and pulls you to your feet. Chitin crackles, and you think you feel bits of it flaking off. More blood. You’re even woozier standing up, and you’re gasping for air, because all you seem to be getting right now is blood. She brushes some dirt off your shoulders and looks at you.

And then she kisses you, for the second time possibly-today, although time seems like a fuzzy, weird concept right now. It has for … awhile. Since you crawled out of Felt mansion through a little window and you found Droog in a bush like some unwanted garbage. Since you figured if your Crew was gone you might as well die too, and you curled up next to his body and waited for something to happen.

The cops weren’t supposed to find you. They weren’t supposed to fix you.

 _You’re not supposed to kiss her._  

You pull away and stagger a little, managing to keep yourself upright. Something in one of your legs feels flaky, wobbly, but it’s not important. You try to remember what you were doing then, and then you feel the weight of the gun in your hand, and you manage to raise it, even though two parts of your shoulder are grinding together and your fingers are numb.

You get it to chest height, and your arm won’t go any higher. She’s watching you. “So this is what it’s come to?”

You nod. You can’t breathe well enough to speak, anyway.

“I could,” she reflects, “simply leave. I could walk away and leave you to die. This is not much of a contest, Slick.” She’s got a point, but you hold your ground. And then she leans forward, and the barrel of the gun brushes her smooth forehead. “But it is the way it has always had to end, Jack. And it’s time, now.”

Your lip twitches into half a snarl. She smiles and slides her right hand down to her hip, and pulls her own revolver out of its holster. Her fingers almost drop it, but you grab her wrist with your robot arm – it’s bent and twisted now, but it’s still working – and you pull her arm up, gently, probably as gently as anything you’ve ever done to her, and don’t take your hand away until you feel the cool ring of metal at your temple.

She looks surprised, the stupid bitch. Finally. “What –”

“There’s not point,” you manage to say, and you don’t really recognize your own voice. It’s whining and broken and breathless. You’ve heard it before, coming from the dying. Now it’s coming from you.

“Jack …” She looks confused. She’s gorgeous when she’s confused. You’ve never seen her this way before.

 _You’re not supposed to kiss her, Mr. Noir_.

“The Crew’s dead, the universe is gonna end.” You manage a half-shrug, and something in your broken shoulder cracks, loud. “I’m done.”

“But surely you can –”

“ _There’s no point_ ,” you say, and you manage to sound like yourself for one second. “Just … do me one favor, in your entire fucking life. You want to anyway.”

“But Jack I don’t –”

“ _Please_.”

She blinks, and watches you for what feels like a very long time. Your bad knee buckles, so you just lean on that leg for balance. She catches you again, pulls you to her.

 _Not supposed to kiss her_.

She’s still bent, so your faces are hardly apart at all. She nudges into your face with hers, almost kissing you, but you just let yourself rest there. You’re not supposed to kiss her, anyway. You just readjust your gun, and register some surprise when she moves hers, just a little, just enough.

“Fine,” she breathes.

“Good,” you say. You whimper a long breath and pretend your arm isn’t about to fall off. “On three.”

One.

She kisses you.

 _You’re not supposed to kiss her_.

Two.

You break apart for the number, which is fine.

 _Because you’re not supposed to kiss her_.

Three.

You kill her.

-()-

You’re waking up again, which is ridiculous.

But on the bright side, you don’t hurt nearly as much.

 _You’re supposed to kill her_.

You did kill her. You’re sure, because you watched her head blossom like a daylily right before you went blind and you fell down and everything was very, very quiet.

You suppose it would be quiet at the end of the universe.

You didn’t think there would be sand though.

Or someone kicking you.

“Fuck off,” you say, and you fully expect to only attempt words. You expect your chest to be so broken and your lungs to be shredded to bits. But it’s not, and nothing hurts, and your voice sounds just as snarly as it always has.

You decide to open your eye.

A skeleton is ogling you.

“Oh,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else in that moment. The skeleton half-bows, politely, and extends a hand, wrapping bleached-bone fingers around the smooth, intact carapace of your hand. He – maybe, who knows – pulls you up. Nothing scrapes, nothing grinds, your legs don’t wobble.

Well, fuck, of course they wouldn’t.

You wonder if you were supposed to die. That wasn’t in the instructions.

You’re in a desert, gray sand as far as the eye can see, maybe a hint of black mountains in the distance. It’s not clear. You look to the skeleton. “What the hell do I do now?” you ask him, because up until your death you were acting on strict instructions, and suddenly you’re cut loose, like a kite without a string.

The skeleton points behind you and you glance. Grey sand, lumps of dark rock. “Yeah, it’s a fucking desert.” You recognize deserts; you have experience.

YOU CROSS IT. The words drop into your brain – or whatever you have now, if not that, without any sort of vocal intermediary. You scowl.

“Of course I do.” You shove your hands into your pockets and glower at Death. “Crossing a fucking desert, yes, perfect goddamn afterlife,” you gripe. “I’m so fucking thrilled.”

“Indubitably.”

It’s stupid to say your blood ran cold, because you probably don’t have blood anymore. You’re dead. Dead people don’t have blood to run cold.

You’d just heard the dead speak, though, and they’re not supposed to do that either.

You turn, back to the dark rocks – or what you had thought were dark rocks, anyway. They’re not, though, they’re three Dersites in black suits, and they’re looking at you.

You’re not sure who moves first, but when your brain starts working again you’ve got your arms wrapped around Droog and Clubs is leeched on to your shoulders and the three of you are piled on top of Boxcars like he’s a giant, laughing mattress. You’re not crying, because you don’t fucking cry, and you’re dead anyway, and it’s just condensation or something.

“The fuck are you doing here,” you say into Droog’s lapel, and you don’t sound like yourself again, because this time you sound like a fucking pansy who’s crying.

Clubs grabs on tighter, the little fucker, and giggles a little.

“Waiting for you.”


End file.
